


tell me love where do we go

by merricats_sugarbowl



Series: i am always yours [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek Hale & Sheriff Stilinski Bonding, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, Pack Family, Pining Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“A job,” Derek says. “That’s how you think I’ll fix my image.”</i>
</p>
<p> <i>“You need to start looking like a socially capable, mentally functioning adult,” Lydia tells him. “And you can do that practically overnight if you get a job where you interact with other mentally functioning adults. Once people see that you’re not a scary recluse, you don’t look like a perv anymore.”</i></p>
<p>In an attempt to make Derek seem more normal, the pack have gotten him a job at the sheriff's station. In order to keep his pack happy, Derek has to adjust to being a deputy and somehow convince Sheriff Stilinski that he's not such a bad guy. Meanwhile, he's trying desperately not to think inappropriate thoughts about Stiles.</p>
<p>Really, it's too much for one werewolf to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me love where do we go

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a sequel to my previous fic _i watched it begin again_ , and although it's not strictly necessary to read that one first, this one may be a *little* confusing if you don't.
> 
> You can find me [here](http://spasmodictricksofradiance.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

Derek knows what an intervention is. He knows that they’re designed for people with serious problems, like drug addiction, alcoholism, and eating disorders. He knows that the idea of staging an intervention is to change someone's life for the better. Above all else, though, Derek knows that he doesn’t need one. So when he comes home one day to find the whole Beacon Hills pack sitting on the porch of the Hale house, holding a banner that spells out **INTERVENTION** in wobbly red letters, he’s more than a little confused.

“Whatever this is,” he says as he climbs the porch steps, “I don’t want to know. It’s late. I’m tired. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He feels oddly like an overworked father admonishing his hyperactive children, and resolves to remedy that in the future. It’s bad enough that his pack is comprised entirely of teenagers without making it worse by treating them like kids.

Unsurprisingly, nobody moves. Derek sighs, halting in his footsteps and folding his arms across his chest. All it takes is a quirked eyebrow and then they’re all falling over themselves to explain what they’re doing here. It’s an undecipherable mess of words until at last, Lydia raises her voice above the rest.

“We need to talk to you,” she says loudly.

“You’re kidding,” Derek deadpans. “Can it wait until morning?”

“It’s better if we do it now,” Lydia replies. Behind her, the others nod and murmur their assent. Derek sighs again.

“Fine. But if you wave that banner at me one more time, Stiles, I’m going to shove it down your throat.” Stiles lowers the banner silently and Derek lets them all into the house.

It’s been a month since they finished the renovation, but the house still smells faintly of paint fumes and wood varnish. Underneath that, there’s the familiar smell of everyone in the pack — they’ve been hanging out here more and more, and Derek’s finally convinced them that weekly pack meetings are a good idea. Ordinarily, they’re welcome in his home. He’s told them more than once that it’s their home, too. But right now, with that stupid banner and the weird energy thrumming around them, he doesn’t want them here. He can’t help but feel that whatever this is, it’s not going to be pleasant for him.

They’re uncharacteristically polite once they’re in the living room. Derek sits in his usual armchair (he tries not to think about the fact that fathers have a usual armchair, too) and Isaac sits cross-legged on the couch, but everyone else remains standing. They look ridiculous. Derek raises his eyebrows at them, waiting, and once again, it’s Lydia who acts as spokesperson.

“Your image is starting to have a negative impact on the rest of us,” she says bluntly. Derek can’t help but gape at her.

“My… image?”

“It’s just that it’s starting to look a little… weird,” Scott jumps in, prompting nods from the rest of the pack. “You’re a guy in your early twenties, you’ve got a reputation for breaking the law, you live out in the woods, you spend all your time hanging around with a bunch of teenagers… it’s weird, Derek.”

“Weird,” Derek repeats flatly.

“We know that it’s all above board,” Scott says hastily, “but to people who don’t know you’re a werewolf, it comes off as kind of…” He trails off, but Erica’s happy to complete the thought.

“Skeevy,” she says. “You look like a perv.”

Her words open the floodgates and then everybody’s talking at once again, offering their own opinions on Derek’s supposed public image. He waits until they’ve finished and then gazes around at them all coolly, letting his eyes flash blue to show them that he’s not taking this lightly.

“I live in the woods because this is my family home,” he says calmly, “and I spent the whole summer rebuilding it from the ground up. I have a reputation for breaking the law because sometimes, human laws don’t matter when you’re protecting people from supernatural monsters. I spend all of my time with a bunch of teenagers because those teenagers are my pack, and it’s my job to look out for them and protect them. How, exactly, do you suggest that I continue to do that without looking like a perv?” He glares at Erica on that last word. She doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

“Well,” Scott says, hesitant, “we thought that you could get a job.”

“I don’t need a job,” Derek replies immediately. “I have money—”

“Right, right,” Stiles says, cutting him off, “you’re Mr. Moneybags, we know that already. It’s not about earning money, it’s about looking like a normal member of society.”

“A job,” Derek says. “That’s how you think I’ll fix my image.”

“You need to start looking like a socially capable, mentally functioning adult,” Lydia tells him. “And you can do that practically overnight if you get a job where you interact with other mentally functioning adults. Once people see that you’re not a scary recluse, you don’t look like a perv anymore.”

Derek gets to his feet, folding his arms. “Look, I appreciate the concern,” he says, his tone clearly indicating that he doesn’t, “but I’ve gotten by just fine on my own until now, and—”

“It’s not just about you,” Boyd says. “We’re starting to get heat about hanging out with you. More than one person has asked me if I’m in the cult of Derek Hale.”

Boyd rarely says so many words at once, and it’s that that makes Derek realise just how serious they are about this. He looks around at them, finally registering the severity of their expressions. Defeated, he sighs and slumps his shoulders. “What do you want me to do, fill out an application for the Gas ‘n’ Go?” he says moodily. Erica snorts.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’ve already decided. You’re going to be a deputy!”

“It’s perfect,” Isaac points out. “You already do a lot of detective work anyway, and you said it yourself — you’re all about protecting Beacon Hills! Plus it helps that we have an in with the sheriff’s department.” He shoots a glance at Stiles, who grins and tips an imaginary cap.

Derek feels himself go limp. He can hardly argue with the logic. After all, joining the sheriff’s department wouldn’t be much of a change for him. All it would do is give him an official reason to investigate the strange goings-on of Beacon Hills. It might actually be the perfect job for him…

… If it wasn’t for the fact that he would be working for Stiles’s father. Derek hasn’t been able to put a name to his feelings for Stiles just yet. There was all of that fantasising that he did over the summer, and then the drunken kiss at the housewarming party (which Stiles, thankfully, doesn’t seem to remember), but he’s been trying not to think about it, because Stiles is underage. He’s been trying to do anything that will keep the two of them from spending any time alone together in the hopes that he’ll get over whatever it is that has him so fascinated by Stiles, but so far, he hasn’t had any luck. And the idea of working for the father of the boy he might be infatuated with makes Derek shudder. Just like his son, Sheriff Stilinski is a perceptive guy. What’s to stop him from figuring out that Derek’s intentions towards Stiles aren’t wholly pure?

“Don’t you two have anything to say about this?” he says desperately, looking to Allison and Jackson for help. They’ve been quiet during this whole ordeal, and a tiny part of Derek is hoping that they might be on his side, but they just shrug at him.

“It makes perfect sense to me,” Allison says. _Traitor_ , Derek’s mind shouts. Jackson’s only contribution is a bored shrug.

“Alright,” Derek says, unable to argue any longer. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it?” Stiles says, laughing. “Oh, you poor, naïve soul.”

Derek narrows his eyes, silently demanding an explanation. Scott coughs, dragging a hand through his hair. “See, the thing is,” he says, “Stiles actually turned in an application for you last week. And he’s spoken to his dad about it. So…”

“So?” Derek repeats, glaring.

“Soyouactuallystartinthemorningandyoushouldreallygettobedbecauseit’slateokaybye,” Scott says, hustling the rest of the pack out of the house while he’s still speaking. Derek can do nothing but gape as they troop out of the house one after the other, leaving him alone with a distinctly uncomfortable Isaac.

“Tomorrow?” Derek says, dumbfounded.

Isaac gives a nervous smile in response.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek doesn’t sleep much that night. He’s nervous, though he would never admit that to anyone. He’s never had an actual job – he’s never had to have one. His family have always been well off, and after the fire, the Hale family fortune was willed entirely to Derek and his sister. After Laura’s death, it all went to him. He never had to deal with pumping gas or ringing up groceries when he was a teenager, and now that he’s in his early twenties, the idea of a job just seems foreign and alien to him.

So he isn’t entirely sure how the whole ‘job’ thing works, but he’s pretty sure that most people don’t have a seventeen-year-old boy hand in their application for them. As he lies in bed trying to fall asleep, he wonders what Sheriff Stilinski thought of Stiles’s role in Derek’s application, and then decides that he’d rather not know.

He finally manages to fall asleep just as the sun is starting to peek over the horizon. His alarm beeps less than an hour later, and he has to struggle out of bed with bloodshot eyes and stiff limbs.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t have to go through with this. He’s an adult, and nobody can force him to do something that he doesn’t want to do. But his pack came to him with a concern, and Derek knows that it’s his job to allay it, even if that means working with Stiles’s father. Anyway, now that he’s spent an entire night thinking about what the pack said, he can understand where they’re coming from. To outsiders, he must look like a creep. He doesn’t even want to know what people think of Isaac living with him.

As he’s in the kitchen making breakfast (eggs – the only thing Derek knows how to cook), his phone buzzes with a text alert. He opens it and then frowns, confused. It’s Stiles.

_Large Americano with two extra shots, black._

Derek moves the frying pan off of the burner so that his eggs aren’t ruined while he replies.

_Was that text meant for me?_

The reply doesn’t come through until he’s sitting at the table, knife and fork in hand.

_The sheriff_ _’_ _s coffee order_ , Stiles writes. _I may or may not have intentionally destroyed the coffee pot so you could get on his good side._

Derek makes a mental note of the order, and when he arrives at the coffee shop on his way to the sheriff’s station, he asks the barista to re-do the order twice, even though it’s a simple one. He needs it to be perfect. He knows that he isn’t Sheriff Stilinski’s favourite person, and if he’s going to be stuck working with him for the foreseeable future, then he’ll do anything he can to make a good impression.

He arrives at the station at eight thirty, holding a Styrofoam tray with two steaming cups of coffee in one hand and a bag of donuts in the other. He wasn’t sure about the donuts, wondering if it was offensive to buy into the stereotype, but in the end he decided that no one could be offended by a bag of donuts. He’s standing in front of the building trying to bolster his nerves enough to actually walk inside when his phone buzzes with another text. Stiles, again.

_Good luck!_

It’s followed by a ton of smiley face emojis, and even though there’s nobody around to see it, Derek forces a scowl to hide the smile threatening to tug at his lips. He shouldn’t be so affected by a simple, friendly message. He certainly shouldn’t have warm, fuzzy feelings in his stomach at the sight of it.

He pockets his phone and steels himself, deciding that he can’t linger out here any longer. He’s Derek Hale, dammit, and Derek Hale isn’t afraid of a silly little deputy’s job. Besides, the coffee’s getting cold.

Inside, the station is quiet. It’s a Tuesday morning, still early, and there aren’t many people here yet. It’s the first time that Derek’s been here since Jackson was the kanima. He sees the place where he and Stiles lay together, paralysed, and has to shake his head to get the memory to dissipate. Frowning, he heads for the sheriff’s office, spotting his familiar figure through the slats of the blinds.

He raises the hand that’s holding the donut bag and knocks, feeling a little bit like a school-kid in the principal’s office when Stilinski tells him to come in.

“Good morning,” Derek says, wondering if he sounds as awkward as he feels. “Uh, I brought coffee. And donuts.”

“Buying into the stereotype, I see,” Stilinski says without looking up from his desk.

Derek thinks that it’s a joke. It’s hard to tell, with Stiles’s father. The sheriff finishes scrawling his signature on a form and then looks up, folding his hands together. His eyes zero in on the coffee cups and Derek hastens to offer him one.

“Americano,” he says, “two extra shots. Black.”

“You’ve been talking to Stiles.”

“He mentioned that you might appreciate it,” Derek admits.

“He’s not wrong,” the sheriff says, accepting the cup with a nod of thanks and then gesturing for Derek to sit down. “Damn coffee pot wasn’t working this morning and I didn’t have a chance to stop off on my way here.” He takes a deep sip, closing his eyes. “Mm, that’s just what the doctor ordered.” Then he looks up at Derek, gaze growing serious. “So. You’re my newest deputy.”

Derek nods, unsure of how to respond. Sitting across the desk from Stilinski, he feels more like a schoolboy than ever. “Uh, yes, sir.”

To his amazement, Stilinski laughs. The sheriff’s laugh is startlingly similar to his son’s – infectious, loud. Derek blinks, waiting for the laughter to subside. After a moment, the sheriff meets his eyes again, a grin still lingering on his face.

“Boy, you’re really trying, aren’t you?” he says.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Derek replies, though he knows exactly what Stilinski is talking about. He’s not polite by nature. He knows how to charm women to get what he wants, and some men, too, but actual manners are a mystery to him. It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable with them. The ‘sir’ sounds strained on his tongue.

Do deputies even refer to the sheriff as ‘sir?’ Derek doesn’t know.

“I’ll be blunt, son,” Stilinski says, leaning forward in his seat. “I don’t like you. I don’t _understand_ you. You’re shady, there’s no getting around that, but nothing sticks to you. You’ve got all of this money and no obligations or family tying you to Beacon Hills, but you stick around, anyway. You hang around with a bunch of teenagers.” His eyes flash. “My _son_ , for one. From what I can tell, you don’t have any friends your own age, and you always seem to be wrapped up in whatever weird stuff goes down in this town.”

Derek’s heart sinks. He should have known that this would happen. He should never have expected that Sheriff Stilinski would just accept him working here. Derek’s been a constant person of interest ever since Laura’s body was discovered. A person of interest can’t become a trusted deputy overnight – he was an idiot to even assume that it was possible.

It’s not that Derek cares about the job. He didn’t want it in the first place. But he doesn’t want to disappoint the pack.

When the sheriff is finished listing off all of the reasons he has for disliking him, Derek gives him a cool look. On his way into the station this morning, he had every intention of bowing his head and grovelling his way into the sheriff’s good books, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that there’s no way that’s going to happen, so he doesn’t see the point in trying anymore. He may as well defend himself as well as he can, and that starts with finding out why he’s here, if the sheriff really dislikes him so much.

“With all due respect, Sheriff Stilinski,” he says, “why did you agree to take me on, if you’re so suspicious of me?”

The sheriff looks at him for a long time, thoughtful. “Well,” he says, “for one thing, you may be involved in a lot of things that don’t make sense in this town, but the cases you’re involved in seem to get solved an awful lot faster than the others.” He pauses. “And then there’s Stiles. He practically begged me to hire you.”

Derek tries his best to look unaffected. “Oh?”

“You don’t need this job for the money,” the sheriff says. “I knew that. I told Stiles as much. Do you know what he said to me?”

“I can’t say I do, Sheriff.”

“He said that he thought working here might help you make some friends your own age,” Stilinski says, emitting another short burst of laughter. He spreads his hands wide. “So how am I meant to take that, Derek? On the one hand, I have a suspicious character who constantly seems to be up to no good. On the other, I have a friend of my son’s – a slightly older friend, who my son says is socially awkward and has difficulty mixing with his peers.”

Derek makes a mental note to murder Stiles for that description later. For now, he wonders where the sheriff is going with this.

“At the end of the day,” Stilinski continues, “there’s nothing that we’ve been able to charge you with. And I can’t deny that you’ve helped us out in the past. There’s every possibility that you’ll excel here. What I’m saying, Derek, is that I trust Stiles’s judgment. And,” he adds, “at least if you’re here, I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”

Derek blinks. “You’re still willing to hire me,” he says slowly. The sheriff nods.

“I’m aware of your history, Derek,” he says, “and I’m willing to believe that as a result of that, you’re just a bit of an oddball. I’ve always been a man who believed in the benefit of the doubt. You have a job here if you want it.”

Derek mulls it over. There’s still a chance to leave. But he finds himself wanting to rise to the sheriff’s unspoken challenge – to prove him wrong about the kind of man that Derek is.

He meets Stilinski’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “I want it.”

The sheriff gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Well then. Welcome aboard.”

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s impressed with you!” Stiles crows, sounding almost giddy. “Those were his exact words, Derek, _impressed_! With _you_!”

It’s been three weeks since Derek started working at the sheriff’s station, and those three weeks have been some of the strangest of his life. There’s something oddly thrilling about having a nine to five working routine, Derek’s found, though he thinks that maybe that’s just a novelty that’s going to wear off soon. He’s gotten into the habit of picking up coffee and donuts for himself and the sheriff every morning, and then he spends his day carrying out his deputy’s duties. Mostly, this just involves a lot of paperwork – the job is significantly less investigation focused than the pack had led him to believe – but he doesn’t mind. It’s relaxing, in a strange sort of way.

He thinks that he’s making progress with the sheriff, too, especially if Stiles’s exclamations are accurate. Each day, it seems like the sheriff frowns at him less. He’s even begun to form a few tentative friendships with his co-workers, though he had to turn down an invitation to go out tonight to attend the weekly pack meeting. Even so, he’s starting to transition from shady person of interest to a socially capable, mentally functioning adult, according to Lydia’s terminology, and surprisingly, it’s not as difficult as Derek thought it would be.

Derek would never admit it to the pack, but he actually kind of likes it.

It does eat into the time he gets to spend with the pack, though, which is why he’s grateful for nights like this. When they were renovating the house, Erika suggested pot-luck dinners as a way of spending time in it together, and the pack have taken her suggestion and ran with it. Earlier, they had a spicy curry, courtesy of Isaac. Now they’re all sitting on the deck in the cool, late October air with plates of cheesecake provided by Lydia, and scoops of ice-cream that Stiles proudly declared to be home-made when he arrived, though the Ben and Jerry’s logo was clearly emblazoned on the lid. It’s comfortable.

_It_ _’_ _s home_ , Derek thinks, and he has to hide his smile behind his spoon so no one can catch it.

“Can I be honest?” Jackson says, and then, without waiting for a reply, he charges on. “I didn’t think he’d last a day. I figured someone would set him off and he’d go full alpha on their ass.”

The rest of the pack make booing noises and Jackson shrugs, digging his spoon into his cheesecake.

“I knew you could do it, Derek,” Allison says, giving him a supportive smile.

“We all did,” Scott adds.

“Impressed,” Stiles says, sounding wistful. “Do you know how hard it is to impress the sheriff? I mean, I’ve never done it.”

If Derek was better at expressing himself, now would be the perfect time to tell Stiles about all of the times that he’s impressed him in the past, but he’s not good at expressing himself, so he doesn’t say anything. He remains quiet as Stiles and Scott descend into good-natured bickering about whether or not Sheriff Stilinski is proud of his son, and still doesn’t speak as the rest of the pack start to drift their separate ways, dessert finished.

This is how their pot-luck dinners work. They eat together as a group, and then once the plates are cleared, they split off into distinct sub-groups that rarely change. Boyd and Erica disappear upstairs to do things that Derek doesn’t want to think about. Scott and Allison wander off arm-in-arm to be alone, though sometimes they join Isaac and Stiles when they head into the game room to play foosball. Lydia and Jackson make themselves busy in the library – she’s tutoring him, since his grades suffered during his ordeal as the kanima. Derek usually joins Isaac and Stiles in the game room, not wanting to intrude on any of the couples when they’re alone together.

Tonight, they follow the same predictable patterns. Boyd and Erica head upstairs with their hands linked, Scott and Allison go for a stroll in the woods, and Lydia leads Jackson into the library with promises of rewards if he co-operates with her lesson plan. Isaac and Stiles play a few games of foosball, but then Isaac deviates from the routine. He excuses himself early, complaining of a headache, leaving Derek and Stiles in the game room.

It’s the first time they’ve been alone together since the housewarming party. Derek is more than a little nervous.

For a while, it seems as though Stiles doesn’t even realise that Isaac has left. He continues playing foosball by himself and chattering away to Derek about how much he’s surprised the sheriff. Finally, though, he straightens up and turns to face Derek, who’s lounging on the couch. Stiles raises an eyebrow, and Derek feels a familiar rush of dread. He knows that expression. That’s the expression that Stiles gets when he’s about to do something that Derek doesn’t want him to do.

“So,” Stiles says, sounding dangerously nonchalant. “Are we ever going to talk about it?”

Derek’s entire body stills. He knows what Stiles is talking about – how could he not? – but he doesn’t know how _Stiles_ knows what he’s talking about. It’s been weeks since their drunken kiss and he hasn’t said a word. Derek was sure that he’d forgotten. He’d _hoped_ that he’d forgotten.

But now Stiles is looking at him, expectant, and Derek doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, playing dumb, but he knows he’s just stalling for time. Stiles is smart, a lot smarter than most people think. Stubborn, too. Derek can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s not going to let this go without a fight.

Damn it. He was sure that he’d forgotten.

“Derek.”

“Stiles.”

“Come _on_ ,” Stiles says, exasperated. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Do you really think that would be less awkward? Because I will.” When Derek doesn’t reply, he sighs. “I’m _talking_ about the housewarming party, when you picked me up and brought me to the couch and then we kissed—”

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, cutting him off. He’s suddenly terrified that someone is listening. What would the others say if they knew what happened between them at the party? He doesn’t want to think about it.

Stiles folds his arms. “You said that we’d talk about it. It’s been weeks.”

Derek’s stomach twists. Yes, he’d said that, but he’d assumed that Stiles was too drunk to register it. Even if he’d remembered the kiss, there was no way he’d remember the conversation that went along with it. Except clearly he does remember it, and now he’s looking at Derek with determination in his eyes, set on getting the answers that he wants.

Derek wonders if he also remembers that he said Derek was a good kisser, but he decides that he doesn’t want to know.

“I thought you forgot about it,” he admits.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Derek says, snapping just a little. He wants desperately to rewind to an hour or two before, when they were all relaxing out on the porch. A family. A pack. Not this twisted melodrama that he’s somehow found himself in.

Stiles is crossing the room now to sit on the couch beside him, and it’s too close for comfort. Derek can’t think when Stiles is close like this, not when he can smell that familiar scent of citrus and coffee and ink, not when he can see the individual moles on Stiles’s skin and the flecks of colour in his dark eyes. It’s too _close_.

“You were drunk,” he says at last, voice low and gruff. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says. Derek gives one hard nod and then Stiles shrugs. “Well, I’m not. And I call bullshit, by the way. I wasn’t _that_ drunk. It’s not like you took advantage of me. Kissing someone who wants you to kiss them isn’t taking advantage, Derek, no matter what your misguided sense of chivalry tells you.”

Derek closes his eyes. “You are _seventeen_ , Stiles.”

He hates that he has to keep reminding himself of that.

“Do you want me?” Stiles demands.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says firmly. “I’m too old for you. I work for your father, Stiles. What do you think the sheriff would do to me if he found out about that kiss? Do you think he’d shake my hand and give us his blessing? You’re smarter than that.”

For the first time, Stiles hesitates, and Derek senses his way out. “Maybe he wouldn’t be too thrilled, but—”

“I’ve just gotten on his good side,” he says. “You and the others wanted me to seem like – how did Lydia put it? A socially capable adult? Isn’t my job at the station supposed to be about keeping up appearances?” Wordlessly, Stiles nods. “Socially capable adults don’t date teenagers, Stiles.”

For a long moment, Stiles doesn’t say anything. Then he gets to his feet and returns to the foosball table. There’s a tense silence for a while, until finally, Stiles speaks again, telling Derek about something that happened at school and why Mr. Harris is still the worst. It’s awkward, at first, but then it seems almost normal.

Almost.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek means it. Socially capable adults don’t date teenagers. But he still can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to date Stiles. Now that he knows that Stiles remembers everything that happened on the night of the housewarming party, it’s somehow more difficult to keep his own memories of that night suppressed. Now that he knows that Stiles actually wants to be with him and it wasn’t just the alcohol playing with his judgment, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to give into his feelings.

The weeks following the party weren’t easy, but now, it’s even harder. Stiles is constantly on his mind, and Derek feels guilty every time he passes by the sheriff’s office, even though Stilinski has no idea about Derek’s feelings for his son.

Perhaps the only upside to the situation is that the sheriff is still oblivious to it, and, amazingly, continues to be impressed by Derek. Derek was afraid that if he and Stiles discussed what had happened, it would be written all over their faces – that somehow, everyone would know. He was afraid that speaking it aloud would make it real. But the sheriff, and thankfully, the rest of the pack, have no idea about what they discussed in the game room. Derek intends to keep it that way.

He doesn’t have to worry about Stiles giving anything away. He acts more or less normal around the rest of the pack. The only indications that anything’s changed between them are minor and inconsequential, something that only Derek would notice – like how Stiles goes out of his way not to be alone with him, or how his voice drops just slightly when he addresses Derek directly. Derek tries not to care. He’s the one who rejected Stiles, after all. He doesn’t think he’s allowed to care.

It’s probably a good thing that there’s some distance between them. Derek’s not sure if he’d be able to control himself if he were alone with Stiles. He’s always thought that self-control was his strong suit, but judging from the amount of time he spends thinking about Stiles’s mouth when they’re _not_ together, self-control would probably fly right out the window if they were alone.

As November sets in and he continues to fantasise about all of the things Stiles could do with that mouth, Derek is forced to admit that he doesn’t care about the age difference between them anymore. The only thing stopping him from acting on his feelings is the thought of Sheriff Stilinski’s reaction.

His worry over the sheriff’s inevitable disapproval of his feelings for Stiles is mostly because of Stilinski’s newfound respect for him; he doesn’t want to risk ruining that. He’s settled in further at the station and gotten better at his job, and now, it’s as if the sheriff never held any animosity towards him at all. It’s almost like they’re friends; Stilinski smiles at Derek when he enters the station, and sometimes, he’s the one who brings the coffee in the mornings. It leaves Derek feeling conflicted. He’s glad that he’s finally convinced the sheriff that he’s not such a bad guy, but he’s not sure that he deserves the redemption anymore.

He’s working late one Friday night when Sheriff Stilinski stops by his desk. It’s dark in the station. Winter’s drawing in and the days are getting shorter, so Derek has the lamp turned on while he goes over some paperwork for a parking ticket. Most of his co-workers have gone home. He’d thought that the sheriff was at home, too, but it looks like he’s just getting ready to leave. Derek lays down his pen and looks up expectantly, waiting for Stilinski to give him his workload for next week, or maybe some more paperwork to be handed in first thing Monday morning.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he gives Derek a long, pensive look, and says, “Come on. Get your things.”

“I’m sorry?” Derek says, caught off-guard. Is he fired?

“Get your things,” the sheriff repeats. “You’re coming to my place for dinner tonight.”

Derek’s stomach instantly knots. Dinner at the sheriff’s house, dinner with _Stiles_. It’s a nightmare scenario, one that he can’t even begin to contemplate, and he’s attempting to formulate an excuse when the sheriff sighs and goes to the wall to retrieve Derek’s coat.

“Uh, that’s a very nice offer, Sheriff,” he babbles, “but I’ve actually got plans tonight.”

A lie. And not a good one, either. The Hale house is empty this evening. Boyd and Erica are taking Isaac to the movies. All that’s waiting for Derek at home is a microwave dinner and the television, but the sheriff doesn’t have to know that. He just has to _believe_ that Derek has some semblance of a social life.

Unfortunately for Derek, the sheriff is just as shrewd as his son.

“Derek,” Stilinski says, “I’m throwing you a bone here. You’ve come a long way since you walked through those doors a couple of months ago. I’m trying to show my appreciation, understand?”

Derek hesitates. “Yes, but—”

“Yes,” the sheriff echoes, grinning. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. Come on, on your feet. Soup’s already on.” He starts to hustle Derek out the door. “You won’t regret it; Stiles is an excellent cook.”

Derek groans inwardly. Dinner at the Stilinski household with the sheriff and Stiles is bad enough. Dinner at the Stilinski household, _cooked by Stiles_ , is strangely intimate. For the entire car ride, he tries frantically to think of a way out. He’s on the verge of faking appendicitis when the sheriff pulls up in the driveway and the front door opens to reveal Stiles, hair messy and ruffled, a ridiculous apron that says **KISS THE COOK** in garish red lettering tied around his waist. The sheriff is out of the car within seconds, but Derek stays where he is for a moment, heart thudding in his chest.

But he can’t stay there forever. After a moment, the sheriff looks over his shoulder and waves for Derek to join them, and he has to get out of the car. A strange expression crosses Stiles’s features when he notices him; something like excitement, quickly replaced with sullen disappointment.

“Derek,” he says in a monotone. “Hi.”

The sheriff gives him a funny look. “Everything okay, Stiles?”

The change in Stiles’s demeanour is instantaneous. “Fine, Dad,” he says, his usual bounce reappearing. “You’re late, that’s all. Pasta’s overcooked.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” the sheriff says with a chuckle, and then the two of them head into the house, leaving Derek lingering on the doorstep.

“Hi,” he murmurs, a belated greeting even though Stiles is already in the house. He follows the scent of pasta sauce and the sound of laughter and finds himself in the dining room, where the sheriff is already seated at the table and Stiles is ladling out portions of spaghetti. Derek takes a seat, feeling awkward and out of place as Stiles silently passes him a plate.

Stiles and his father immediately slip into rapid-fire chatter over the meal, and Derek remains silent, twisting spaghetti around his fork and wishing that he was anywhere else. Gradually, though, he starts to feel more comfortable. The thing about the Stilinskis is that they almost radiate warmth – it’s difficult not to get drawn into their conversation, even with the current weirdness between him and Stiles. Before long, Derek finds himself trading quips with Stiles and the sheriff, and by the time the plates are cleared, he’s amazed to find that despite his discomfort, he’s enjoying himself.

The realisation hits him hard, because he _wants_ to be able to enjoy this. He wants this to be a normal thing. He wants to enjoy it without feeling the guilt hanging over his head like a dark cloud, but it’s impossible to avoid it when he can’t stop looking at Stiles’s mouth or the angle of his jaw or the way his eyes light up when he laughs at a joke the sheriff’s just made.

When the plates are empty, Stiles gets to his feet and starts to gather them, and before he knows what he’s doing, Derek’s getting up to help. Stiles says something about washing dishes and fetching dessert and then Derek follows him into the kitchen, even though his mind is screaming at him that this is a bad idea.

Stiles is still chatting away, back to his old talkative self, but Derek’s not even listening to him. He’s stuck on the fact that there were three plates when he arrived; that there was enough food for him.

“You knew I was coming,” he says, and Stiles turns, questioning.

“Well. Not you specifically. Dad said that he was bringing one of his deputies over for dinner.” He gives a slight shrug. “He does that sometimes.”

“Oh.” Derek puts his plate in the sink and rolls up his sleeve, starting to wash the dishes without any prompting. Stiles picks up a dishtowel, ready to dry, a small smile quirking up the corners of his lips at the sight of Derek being domestic.

“He’s really impressed with you now,” Stiles says. It takes Derek a moment to remember that they’re talking about the sheriff. “He keeps saying that he was wrong about you and that you’ve obviously had a rough time, yadda yadda. He’s done a complete one eighty.”

Derek hands Stiles a clean plate. “Your dad’s great,” he says carefully. “I’m glad he doesn’t think I’m the devil incarnate anymore.”

_But that will change_ , his mind whispers. _If he ever finds out the things you think about Stiles…_

Almost as if he knows what Derek is thinking, Stiles sighs. “I really don’t think he’d care, you know,” he says quietly, and Derek’s heart skips a beat.

He doesn’t want to have this conversation again. He doesn’t think he can force himself to reject Stiles again, not in this tiny kitchen, where he’s hyper aware of every movement of Stiles’s body and the scent of his skin.

“Stiles,” he says, a warning, but when has Stiles ever listened to Derek?

“I’m serious,” Stiles presses. “Okay, the age difference? Not ideal. I get it. But he _likes_ you now. He thinks you’re going places. He already knows that we’re friends, it’s not like it’s that big of a leap.”

“‘Not ideal?’” Derek repeats, gritting his teeth. He reaches over to turn off the faucet and then glares at Stiles, because glaring is probably the only way he’s going to get through this. “It’s illegal, Stiles. Do the words statutory rape of a minor mean anything to you?”

Stiles snorts. “Please. Like I’m that easy. I’m not just going to jump into bed with you. And I’m almost eighteen, anyway.”

Derek runs his hands through his hair, despairing. Stiles is trying to be funny, he knows, but he doesn’t understand just how difficult this is for Derek. Sure, Stiles may be almost eighteen, but he’s still a teenager. If he were a few years older, the age difference between them probably wouldn’t matter at all, but he isn’t, and it does. There’s no getting around it, no matter how much Derek wishes there was.

Even if he doesn’t care about it anymore, Stiles’s father certainly would.

“Do you think this is a joke?” he asks. Stiles frowns.

“No. I think you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, agonised. He can’t take it anymore. “I want to be with you, alright? Does it make it better that I said it?” Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but Derek’s not finished yet. “I think about you constantly. You’re infuriating and annoying and amazing, and you’re probably the person I care about most in the world, but none of that _matters_ , because I can’t _do_ anything about it. You’re a kid. You don’t know what you want. Even if you did, even if it was me, you can’t _have_ me. We can’t do this. We _can_ _’_ _t._ ”

He’s breathing heavily, hands clenched against the countertop, eyes squeezed shut so that he doesn’t have to see Stiles’s face at his outburst. It would have been easier on both of them if he hadn’t admitted the depth of his feelings, but it’s out there now. He can’t take it back.

As he’s trying to get his composure back, he feels Stiles’s fingers brush against his arm, hesitant. He tenses. He knows that he should shrug him off, put some distance between them, get back to the dining room where the watchful eye of the sheriff will make him behave – but this entire evening has been an exercise in self-control, and he’s exhausted. Stiles’s touch is comforting. He doesn’t want to shrug him off.

When Derek doesn’t move, Stiles gets bolder, putting an arm around his back and gripping him in a sort of half hug. It’s awkward, but somehow wonderful. Derek keeps his eyes shut, memorising the feel of Stiles’s body pressed against his own, because he knows that he’s going to have to pull away in a moment. He knows that.

But then Stiles says his name, low and questioning, and he’s so close that Derek can feel his breath ghosting across his skin. And he’s not perfect. He’s not a pillar of restraint. He may be a werewolf, but he’s only human.

He turns slightly, opening his eyes and meeting Stiles’s. There’s not much distance between them to begin with, but then Derek leans in and closes it, connecting their mouths before he can stop himself.

_Stop_ , his brain shrieks. _Stop, stop, this is a mistake! The sheriff is in the next room! You_ _’_ _re only going to make it harder to reject him! STOP!_

He doesn’t stop.

He’s not sure how long they stand there in the kitchen, Stiles wrapped around him, but it feels like an eternity. The rest of the world fades out as Stiles’s lips move against Derek’s. Finally, though, Derek comes back to his senses and realises that he’s kissing Stiles in his _kitchen_ , with his father in the next room. With his father’s _gun_ in the next room.

It’s not the smartest decision that he’s ever made.

He pulls away and Stiles makes a soft noise of disapproval, chasing Derek’s lips, but Derek holds him off.

“Stop,” he says, and Stiles looks up at him, brows knitting together with frustration.

“No, _you_ stop,” he says. Derek blinks, confused. Stiles folds his arms. “God, you have the emotional maturity of a teaspoon, you know that? Listen,” he punctuates the word with a jab of his finger to Derek’s chest, “you know what you want. You know what I want. Stop making bullshit excuses about age differences and the fact that you work for my father. What it really comes down to is that you’re scared to actually let yourself be happy.”

“Stiles—”

“Oh no, I’m not finished,” Stiles interrupts, glaring, but before he can say any more, the sheriff’s voice comes from the hallway.

“What’s taking so long?”

The sound of it makes Derek panic. He tries to disentangle himself from Stiles, but it’s more difficult than he anticipated – Stiles’s grip on his arms is persistent, and even at the sound of his father’s footsteps approaching, he doesn’t let go.

“Stiles,” he says desperately, and then there comes the sound of a throat clearing behind them.

“What’s going on in here, guys?” the sheriff asks. The suspicion is clear in his tone. Derek can hardly blame him. Their position right now is more than a little compromising. If Derek’s lips look half as kiss-bruised as Stiles, if his hair is in as much disarray, then they’re in trouble. The iron grip that Stiles has on his biceps isn’t helping, either.

Derek realises that there’s no way to explain this away and make himself look innocent. At that realisation, his mind shuts down and his body takes over. He manages to wrest his arms from Stiles grip and then he wheels around to face the sheriff, attempting a smile, but managing a grimace instead.

“Thank you for dinner, Sheriff Stilinski,” he says automatically. “I really have to be going now.”

And then, before Stiles or his father can do anything to stop him, he strides out of the Stilinski house and heads for home.

 

* * *

 

 

On Monday morning, Derek thinks about calling in sick.

He doesn’t think that anybody in their right mind would blame him. He’s pretty sure that the moment he walks through the doors of the sheriff’s station, Stilinski’s going to fire him anyway and bring him up on statutory rape charges. He’s been ignoring Stiles’s texts, so he’s not sure exactly how the sheriff reacted to walking in on the scene in the kitchen a few nights ago, but he knows that it must have been bad.

 In the end, he doesn’t call in sick. It’s better to get it over with, and he knows that.

He walks into the station that morning with a heavy heart. Working as a deputy was meant to be a ruse; a way of convincing the human population of Beacon Hills that Derek Hale was more than a reclusive loner who lived in the woods and spent a little too much time around teenagers. It was meant to be about appearances, but it’s become so much more. Derek likes his job. He likes the sheriff. More than anything, he liked having the sheriff on his side.

All of that’s ruined now, and Derek’s not sure of where he’s supposed to go from here.

He expects to be called into Stilinski’s office first thing and to be told to have his desk packed up by the afternoon, but no call comes. When he risks walking past the office at lunch time to get a cup of coffee, he peers through the slatted blinds and sees that it’s empty. A few well-placed questions to his co-workers reveal that the sheriff is on some sort of police business and not expected in the station until the afternoon.

_So much for getting it over with_ , Derek thinks gloomily. He returns to his desk and gets on with his work.

Finally, as the end of the work day approaches, he hears someone call out a greeting followed by the sheriff’s name. Derek’s shoulders tense and his pen stills. He doesn’t look up, but he hears the sheriff walking by, making jokes with the other deputies and laughing at theirs. He sounds cheerful, but Derek is sure that same cheer won’t extend to him. The sheriff goes to his office and shuts the door, and Derek waits.

A minute later, the door opens again and the sheriff pokes his head out. “Derek? A word?”

Derek swallows hard and gets to his feet. Every step towards the sheriff’s office is harder than the last. It feels as though his shoes are filled with lead. Finally though, he makes it, and takes the seat that the sheriff offers him. Stilinski sits in his own chair and leans back, surveying Derek closely.

“So,” he says after a moment, heaving a sigh. “Do you want to tell me what was going on between you and Stiles on Friday night, or do I have to tell _you_?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, figuring that apologising first can’t hurt. “It hasn’t been happening the entire time I’ve been working here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I – we weren’t doing anything behind your back, that’s what I’m trying to say. I know that doesn’t make it better, but I think it’s important that you know.”

“You keep saying ‘it’,” the sheriff says. “What exactly _is_ ‘it’, Derek?”

Derek thinks for a moment and then says honestly, “I don’t know.”

Against his better judgment, he tells the sheriff what happened at the housewarming party – an edited version, since he doesn’t want to add ‘aiding and abetting underage drinkers’ to the list of reasons why Stilinski should be mad at him. Then he tells him about trying to stay away from Stiles, about the conversation in the game room, and finally, the scene in the kitchen. When he’s finished, he finds that he can’t look the sheriff in the eye. There’s a tense silence until finally, the sheriff sighs again, sounding world-weary.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Well. I suppose I can’t say I didn’t have my suspicions.”

Derek’s head snaps up and he meets the sheriff’s eyes, shame forgotten in the face of amazement. “You _did_?”

“Stiles has a way of talking about the people he cares about,” Stilinski says. “The way he used to talk about Lydia; well, let’s just say that recently, he’s been talking about you that way.” He emits a sudden, sharp bark of laughter. “He’s the one who convinced me to hire you. He’s been asking constantly how you’re doing at your job and what I think of you. I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again, though he doesn’t think the sheriff can really blame him for the way that Stiles feels. Still, it seems better to cover all of his bases.

The sheriff looks at him for a long moment and then shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I can’t say that I’m happy about it,” he says. “You’re a lot older. You’re not who I would have chosen for my son.” He sighs again and fixes Derek with a hard, considering look. “You know, if I’d found out about this a few months ago, I probably would have killed you.”

Derek swallows. He expected as much, but at least the past tense implies that the sheriff isn’t feeling particularly murderous right now.

“You’ve impressed me over the last few weeks, Derek,” Stilinski continues. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect this either, but—” he spreads his hands wide, “—I don’t suppose there’s much that I can do about it. Stiles is almost eighteen. I’ve never been able to stop that kid from doing anything. I doubt this is going to be any different.”

Derek frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“I want Stiles to be happy,” Stilinski says. “If that means being with you… I guess I’ll come around to it.”

Derek blinks at him. “You… are you giving me _permission_ to date Stiles?”

“Begrudgingly,” the sheriff warns. “And only because I know that if I tell Stiles he can’t see you anymore, he’s going to fight me every step of the way and end up finding a way to see you anyway. The way I see it, Derek, the path of least resistance is the only way to go.” He gives a humourless smile. “I’m trusting you, here. Don’t make me regret it.”

 

* * *

 

When Derek gets home that night, Stiles’s Jeep is parked out front.

Isaac is sitting on the porch, looking pensive, but he leaps to his feet as soon as he sees Derek’s car pull in.

“Hey,” he says, hovering by Derek’s car door, nervous energy thrumming around him. “So, uh, Stiles is here. He seems… upset. He won’t tell me what’s going on, he just keeps saying that he has to talk to you. I tried calling Scott, but he’s with Alison, he’s not answering his phone—”

“It’s fine, Isaac,” Derek cuts him off. “I’ll deal with it.” He tosses Isaac his keys. “Here. Take my car, go for a ride. No scratches when you bring it back though, alright?”

Isaac is looking at the keys like they’re the Holy Grail. Derek never lets anyone drive his car. “Is something wrong?” he asks hesitantly. He wants to help – but he also wants to take the car. Derek shakes his head.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’ll handle it, trust me.”

It’s enough for Isaac. He practically leaps into the driver’s seat. As he speeds away from the house, Derek looks up at the front door, steeling himself. Then he climbs the porch steps and lets himself in.

He finds Stiles in the living room, pacing back and forth in front of the couch that they were sitting on when they kissed for the first time. He looks up at the sound of Derek’s footsteps and Derek can see why Isaac was concerned. Stiles is always hyper, but right now, he looks closer to manic. His hair is sticking out at every angle except the one it’s supposed to, his eyes are wide and his pupils are dilated, and there’s a rising flush on his cheeks.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, accusatory.

“Yes,” Derek agrees. Stiles blinks, confused, clearly unprepared for Derek not arguing with him.

“Uh,” Stiles says, at a loss. Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be angry, he glares. “ _Why_?”

“Stiles, your dad—”

Stiles groans. “Jesus, Derek,” he says, “I can handle my dad.”

Derek had a plan for this. He was going to let Stiles ramble for a bit, call Derek out for being an ignorant asshole, say his piece. Then he was going to shut him up with a kiss.

The plan quickly falls by the wayside when Derek crosses the room, cups Stiles’s face in his hands and kisses him hard.

For a moment, Stiles continues talking, too caught off guard to realise what’s actually happening. He makes a noise that might be indignation or approval, or maybe both, and then he kisses Derek back, arms looping around his back to draw him closer. For the first time, kissing Stiles doesn’t make Derek’s skin prickle with guilt or shame rise in the back of his throat. It feels right.

“Okay,” Stiles says when he pulls away, sounding dazed. “Not that I didn’t enjoy that, but…”

“I talked to your dad,” Derek murmurs. Stiles starts to ask a question, but Derek shushes him, brushing his thumb against Stiles’s cheekbone. “You were right, you know,” he adds softly. “The age thing… I stopped caring about that a while ago. I was worried about what your dad would say.”

“But not anymore.”

“I’m here,” Derek points out. “I still think he’s less than thrilled about us, but he basically gave us his blessing. And you were right about me making excuses to keep myself from being happy, too. I’m sick of doing that. I want you. And now that I know that the sheriff isn’t going to throw me in jail for having inappropriate thoughts about his son, I don’t see why I can’t have you.”

Stiles is grinning now, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt. “Are you serious?”

“As I’ve ever been.” Stiles’s grin grows wider and he leans up to kiss Derek again, but Derek holds up a hand to stop him. “Hang on. There are ground rules.”

Stiles’s smile slips just a little. “Ground rules?”

“You’re still a minor,” Derek says. Stiles groans again.

“I thought that you didn’t care about that anymore!”

“Humour me, alright? Until you’re eighteen, kissing is as far as it goes. We’re going to _date_ ,” he says, emphasising the word when Stiles pouts at him. “Think of it as old-style courtship, Stiles. Hand-holding and kisses on the cheek and dates at the county fair.”

“Beacon Hills doesn’t have a county fair.”

“ _Humour me_ ,” Derek repeats, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Fine,” he says, earning a quick kiss for his agreement. Then he narrows his eyes at Derek, a smirk playing on his lips. “But I’m expecting a _big_ surprise on my birthday.” His eyes flicker to Derek’s crotch so he can’t miss the innuendo. Derek rolls his eyes.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”


End file.
